Eyes Like Mine
by Dragonfire Alchemist
Summary: When the order comes and forces the State Alchemists to war with Creta, Ed and Mustang are devastated; and now it'll take all of their strength in order to survive the coming battles. But will it be enough? And when it's all over, what's the guarantee that Ed's eyes won't be cold like a murderer's... Like Mustang's? (Non-yaoi; happy Parental!RoyEd week, everyone!)
1. A Nation at War

**Happy first day of Parental RoyEd week, everyone! I don't really have much to say about this one other than: enjoy, drop a review if you desire, and favorite/follow if you like it and want me to continue. Even if you think it's garbage, please review so that I may know how to fix the garbage. Thank you!**

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Even though life had been rough, hectic, and at times just downright absurd, at least it had some semblance of reason. Someone would act out of line; they would upset the populace, steal, swindle, or kill. He would be sent out to capture them. The MP's would deal with the unconscious, often tightly bound, aftermath. Then he would resume his readings and travels, of course. Even if he didn't have a little brother who needed his help, he would be doing this anyways. He couldn't stand to be bound to any confined area for much longer than a week, two at best. Even though he hated routines, he had somehow fallen into a nice routine himself, even if it did involve dealing with criminals and getting himself into ever the more reckless situations.

But that single order alone had changed everything, and for the fourth time in his relatively short amount of years, his life had been flipped upside-down.

First his father had abandoned their family.

His mother had died not long after.

They had tried-and failed- to bring their mother back.

And now…

Now he was being ordered to kill.

-FMA-

He should have known better, really. After all, it was quite clear that Amestris was a very war-like country, and it definitely wasn't unheard of for alchemists to be called to the front lines in order to fight off tough opponents. Or, in the Ishvalan War of Extermination's case, called in to completely eradicate the opposing enemies of the nation as a sort of tiebreaker in that massive "game" that was the war. He went into the military and became its dog, knowing fully that he was to be on a leash… Ready to be called out to fight whenever necessary.

So why had he been so extraordinarily shocked?

Why had his little brother been in such surprise and denial?

Surely they couldn't be… So ignorant…

All these disbelieving thoughts and more fluttered about behind the dull, golden eyes that stared straight ahead, and yet at nothing, in shock. The eyes seemed to betray no emotion, but to someone who had known the brash teenager for such a long time, as the raven-haired man beside him certainly had, the molten orbs betrayed feelings that were never spoken aloud; it could be compared to gazing into clear, golden lava and being able to see the jagged, pitch-black obsidian lazily sprouting just beneath the boiling hot, uninviting surface.

They were being jostled about as the car ferried the two alchemists and more soldiers to the base far to the west, towards the border of Creta, where they would be forced to fight in order to simply stay alive. Others who hadn't been brought into the war, or those lucky few who didn't see the mass carnage, would call that desperate struggle to survive "noble". They would go on about the "bravery" and "heroism" of those that had bloodied their hands the most, claiming that they had been defending their country with the greatest of self-sacrifice. And as the raven-haired man trained his eyes on his young subordinate, his heart sank so much further. The kid had to keep living, they both knew that. He would never abandon his little brother over something so sidetracking as death. And just as the raven-haired man had become the "Hero of Ishval," this boy… No, this innocent child would become another "Hero" like him.

And as everyone knows, a rose by any other name is just as sweet… And a murderer by any other name is just as filthy with the blood of the ones they slaughter.

"Fullmetal," he began quietly, breaking the unnatural stillness; despite the loud chattering of the other soldiers around them, it was as if a tight bubble had the two wrapped in its muffling embrace. He wasn't expecting to be answered, but those shimmering eyes slowly crept to regard him with a mild gaze.

"What do you want, bastard?" He snapped half-heartedly

The colonel faltered, deciding to choose his words very carefully. "I was just… wondering how you were holding up, Fullmetal." It was a stupid question, he knew. Even before the war with Ishval, he himself had been locked up and paralyzed with dread. It was a bit of a common reaction amongst soldiers like themselves, although the more common reaction was to nervously chatter with others. But the hardened veteran soldiers- which, Mustang took notice of, there were very few of in this car- were merely silent. They couldn't feel anything; not dread, fear, nor even sorrow, just a familiar, aching numbness that thoughtfully nibbled on one's heartstrings.

"Just peachy," Ed muttered, his voice carrying a sudden thickness, that kind of slur that indicated that bile and other stomach contents would soon be splattered on the floor. But he wasn't going to throw up; not here. Not now, at least. "When're we gonna be there?"

Mustang closed his eyes. Yes, it was the reaction he expected. "We should be there any minute now. After we get out of the truck, we need to hurry up and go to our posts for briefing." To tell the truth, he knew it was likely that he and the kid would part ways as soon as they got to the base. There was only one State Alchemist per squadron… Not necessarily a written rule, but definitely a good strategic rule of thumb. Unless there was some kind of emergency, or if they were leading a full-on frontal charge to crush the ranks before them, he very, very likely wouldn't see his subordinate again until after the war.

_"__If either of you can even make it that long," _a tiny, sadistic voice drawled in the back of his mind. He coldly brushed it away, even though prior experience dutifully informed him that the voice would return in full force sooner or later. Hopefully it would only strike when he could allow himself to take a night to drink his suffering, non-stop mind to sleep.

And Edward knew they would be split up, as well. He knew that he would be left alone without any allies he knew on a personal basis. He honestly wasn't sure what was worse: his friends watching him turn into a murderer, or having complete and utter strangers watch him turn into a murderer. But then he decided that it was the former.

_"__If Al saw me kill someone…" _he thought guiltily as a sting shot through his heart.

_"__He would hate you. He would fear the monster you've become."_

He stifled a groan as his own inner demon began to torment him. Despite not being a war veteran like his raven-haired companion, he knew that the voice would come back to haunt him as well. Only problem was that he couldn't simply drink the night away like the older man, even if he flashed the bartender his pocket watch. Normally he might be able to, but when he first became a State Alchemist, Mustang had put restrictions on his authority that everyone running a business in the areas of East and Central City knew quite well. He really had never wanted to even buy M-rated books or magazines, or even take a sip of alcohol before those privileges were denied to him. Now he only wanted to buy liquor or those books just to spite his commanding officer.

_"__And leave them all over his office. And then he would have to explain why they was all there." _The mere thought caused the corner of his lip to turn up in the faintest beginnings of an evil smirk. But then he took a look around, which caused him to sober. Still here. Still not waking up from this nightmare.

And then the car did exactly what he had been dreading for the past two hour drive.

It stopped.

The soldiers around him slowly got to their feet, complaining about the stiffness in their legs, before shuffling out of the back of the truck in a small, tumultuous herd. He and Mustang would be last.

The colonel forced himself to his feet, not minding the stiffness so much as the dreadful feelings of how horribly similar this was to the first time he was shipped off to war. Beside him, Edward also was forcing himself to stand, just barely commanding his legs not to tremble and collapse. Wordlessly, they brushed against each other, shoulder-to-shoulder (though in Ed's case, more like shoulder-to-upper-arm, even though he would refuse to admit it) as they finally pushed out of the covered back of the truck and into the summer Cretan sunshine that overlooked the vast, sprawling plains and the few hazy mountains that littered the horizon. The two glanced about at the relatively large base camp that teemed with bustling soldiers, indicating that this wasn't too near the warzone. This was the checkpoint in which soldiers would be ordered into their respective locations, branching out into the border of Creta in various scattered groups.

Finally, they slowly turned to face each other. For the first time in years, Edward finally pulled his hand up into a proper salute towards his commanding officer. And for the first time ever, the colonel saluted back. The rare moment seemed to last for hours, even days. The teenage alchemist was almost certain that moss would begin to grow from both of their arms and legs and that snow would blanket them as the seasons passed. But eventually, their eyes met for another agonizingly slow moment before they split apart towards their separate groups.

Roy, once amongst the chattering men, closed his eyes. He pulled up every moment of seeing those fiery, pure, molten-gold eyes that he could find, stubbornly reaching into even the tiniest nooks and crannies of his memories. He would cling to those images as tightly as possible, for he knew that the next time they met, those eyes would be cold, much like his own frozen shards of obsidian.


	2. The Ones We've Left Behind

**Surprise, surprise: fast update! I honestly thought it would take longer than it did to produce this chapter. But it didn't, so PARTY TIME! **

**This chapter really isn't as riveting as I would like (hopefully it might be different for you fabulous readers), but... Eh. It really doesn't work to make a story that's nothing but OVERWHELMING EXCITEMENT! because then you wouldn't have much of a plot at all. I mean, it's like reading The Hobbit or The Hunger Games and cutting out everything except the action scenes. Try following along with THAT plot.**

**Anyways, enough with all the blabbering. Hope you enjoy, and thank you all!**

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The briefings, Edward had decided after his third day in his new squadron, were possibly some of the dullest experiences of his life (besides the time he had to go to church in order to spy on a potential terrorist; although he prided himself on his sturdiness and resistance to the clutches of sleep, the religious drivel and bland monotone of the choir and priest had made staying awake ever so much more difficult). At least most of his squadron had felt the same way. They were a small, ragtag group of men who had all been rather surprised to be teamed up with the teenage prodigy, the Fullmetal Alchemist himself… And were also rather put-out as they had believed that the alchemist would be much taller (they had suffered dearly for voicing that opinion aloud). But besides that, Ed found that he rather liked his new comrades. They had generally seemed quite pleasant, especially the youngest of the other soldiers (but still about four years Ed's senior), Sergeant Klein Rouse. He was a bit shy at first, but he really opened up when invited into a conversation. From what Edward had gleaned from the soldier was that he was single and lived with his mother, a ten-year-old little brother, and his sickly, eight-year-old little sister. His late father had been a soldier, and that had been his inspiration to join the military. Rouse was a noble, if not naïve, soul. He was in the military for the "honor" part of it, but doubtless, Edward thought guiltily, he wouldn't be craving "honor" anytime soon by the time they finished the first battle.

Then there was 2nd Lieutenant Ross Greene. He was a tough-looking man around thirty-something years old, very tall, buff (though not as buff as Major Armstrong or Sig Curtis, which Ed was thankful for), and just intimidating in general. But he was one of those quiet and kind people; the kind that scared the living daylights out of almost everybody but always took that mewling stray kitten stuck in the rain home (which he had apparently done three times).

The fourth squad member was 1st Lieutenant David Falk, the brains of the group (likely almost as knowledgeable as Ed, maybe even more so due to his thirty-three years of experience). He was fairly calm, although his temper flared up rather easily. He had a girlfriend and an older brother at home (the girlfriend he thought highly of; the brother he found to be intolerable, as they fought constantly).

The last member of the squad, however, Ed didn't particularly care for. The jerk was a major, same rank as him, and it wasn't entirely clear who was in charge. It's difficult, after all, to get the two dominant males of the pack to get along and play nice. His name was Michael Dramond, he was about a year or so older than Sgt. Rouse, and to be honest, Ed found the man to be a stuck-up, over-confident, cocky son-of-a-gun. The way he had glared down at the young alchemist within the very first few seconds of them meeting pretty much said it all to Edward: "I won't get along with you and don't plan on ever doing so."

Even the mere thought of the man served to make Ed bristle, even though they were in different tents. At the moment (some hour after midnight, Ed was sure), he was staring up at the faded, beige tent roof while listening to the other soldiers' breathing patterns as they slept. He wasn't sure if he cared for the sound or not; it had been ages since he had ever slept with another person and it was his first time sleeping near this many people. The noises were unfamiliar and attention-grabbing to his sensitive hearing, which also meant that he wouldn't be sleeping well, if at all, tonight. For once, he found himself to be rather annoyed with his age-old habit of sleeping lightly. Finally giving up, he thrust himself out of bed as quietly as he could before gliding out the tent flap, pressed close against the wall without a sound like a shadow.

-FMA-

Ironically enough, Mustang couldn't fall asleep for much the same reason. Living all by yourself does create a slight disadvantage at a military base camp, he decided. Especially since the man in the bunk above him was making a rather queer sound in his sleep, much like the grating rattle produced when one sticks rocks in a blender. He tossed and turned, buried his face in his pillow, and finally groaned before sitting up. All that struggle to block out the noise and the only things gained were rumpled clothing, knotted bed sheets, and hair that resembled a rat's nest. He muttered silent curses to himself as he fixed everything before jumping out of bed to take a walk. Maybe the night air would ease his mind a little. So he slinked out the opening of the tent (not as gracefully as Ed, however; he ran into the side of the tent before quickly shuffling outside) and paced around the silent camp, listening to the crickets creak and chirp.

"Kind of a strange place, eh Hughes?" he mumbled out loud. "I've never been this far west. I… know you didn't, either." Once again, he found himself sorely missing his best friend. "You'd probably say something like 'I miss Gracia and Elicia!' before pulling that giant photo album of yours that you always had on you, no matter what. You'd show me all those photos that I've already seen a million times, which would take hours because you would stop to fawn over every single one…" He found himself reaching the border of the camp in his distraction before turning around to walk in a different direction. No need to alert the sentries over a stupid reason like a midnight stroll.

But no matter how hard he tried to forget about it, his friend kept popping back up in his head. He missed their silly banter every morning when they woke up. He missed chatting about which of their comrades had snored the loudest in their tent that night. He even missed all the bragging of how 'Roy, I have such a beautiful girlfriend' and 'she's the prettiest woman alive' and 'Roy, you need to get yourself a girlfriend!' He had found it rather annoying at the time, but right now, he would give pretty much anything just so that he could have his annoying, dorky pal by his side again.

It was clear that he wouldn't be sleeping tonight, that much he knew for sure. So he settled with sitting down in the grass outside of the tent to wait for morning while reminiscing and nursing the aching scars in his heart.

-FMA-

Ed was focused on the stars, his head tilted back and resting on the scruffy, greenish ground. He wondered how Al was getting on back in Central City… They hadn't spent this much time apart in ages. His younger brother was likely fretting, all by himself. All alone at night, completely sleepless…

This caused him to frown.

Not much bothered Edward, but the thought of leaving his brother all by himself to research- and not to mention, next month was Al's birthday!- troubled him immensely. He wouldn't be back anytime soon, and his brother still needed him to do research on a way to restore their bodies. He knew Al could take care of himself, but he couldn't just leave his brother behind. It wasn't right that Al was doing all the research right now, and here he was, sitting around, watching the stars, and doing absolutely nothing. Frustrated, he clambered to his feet and began to pace. To make matters worse, his stumps had begun to throb and ache, making him even more irritated. It didn't look like it was going to rain anytime soon, but why else would his stumps be acting up?

It was then that a massive, deafening blast, followed by an overwhelming shock of pain lancing through his body, rang out into the night, and his vision faded to black.


	3. First Casualties

**Okay, just a warning. This chapter has a little bit of gore, blood, and the like, so if that isn't your cup of tea, you might want to skip over some parts. Besides that, hope you enjoy! Thank you for reading and reviewing!**

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Mustang had been watching the stars until a mere hour or so before sunrise when several massive blasts had broken out in the distance, each one leaving behind a waving tail of smoke in the dark sky. He was alerted to his feet moments before the alarms shrieked and howled, moments before the sentries were splitting up and calling insistent cries to wake up and prepare for battle into the scattered tents. Trained professional that he was, he didn't stand around and gawk as the young soldiers did. The alchemical gloves were already covering his rough hands; he never dared to take them off near the battlefield, an old habit he had developed back in Ishval. Instinctively, he reached out and snatched the nearest sentry's shoulder, forcing the young man to look at the colonel.

"What happened? What flank was attacked?" Roy demanded.

The sentry stuttered momentarily-"_Likely another rookie"_, the colonel thought to himself-before instantly spilling his guts out at the superior officer. "E-East sector, sir. Three base camps were bombed all at once before the Cretan soldiers moved in."

Roy scowled, making the sentry flinch. Fullmetal had been stationed in the eastern sector, of that he was certain. There were about… eighteen base camps in the eastern sector. His lips pressed together tightly as his face almost notably paled; Fullmetal had a one in six chance of being in one of those camps. And knowing the kid's rotten luck…

"Thank you. Now hurry and arm yourself." He released the sentry before he had the chance to tighten his grip on the poor man's shoulder and show his worry. The last thing he needed was to lose his cool here, of all places. For now, he needed to steady his aim… And be ready to kill once more.

-FMA-

He hurt.

He hurt all over.

His back felt like it was on fire, his automail ports creaked and protested against his every movement, and his chest kept sending panicked messages of sheer pain to his already pounding skull.

_"__Where… Am I…? Ugh… Hard to move… Or think…"_

He was running on almost pure instinct now, but thankfully, his instincts had been trained to assess damage before all else.

Bruised rib, possibly fractured… No. Wait. Only bruised… good. Possible concussion, though it wasn't too severe. Automail mildly damaged; it felt like a few fragments of his prosthetics had broken off, but other than that, they would still work fairly well.

But his back… This wasn't a kind of pain he had familiarized himself with. It felt like ages before his brain could possibly process a reasonable explanation. The skin on his back must be torn open, burned, or both. He felt the sensation of seared flesh all right, as well as the fiery-hot blood trickling down his spine and agitating his wounds further.

With the self-evaluation complete, his mind began to sift through the many files of memories and knowledge that it contained. He was sitting and watching the stars. Aching stump. Deafening noise and searing pain. Unconsciousness.

"Damn it," he croaked, struggling to readjust and force himself up and back onto his feet. Stabs of pain attempted to keep him down, but he eventually made it… And was instantly horrified by what he saw. Blast burns scorched and pocked the earth around him, and the camp was in shambles. The tent where his bunk had been, as well as several others, was completely annihilated. He broke into a run, desperately forcing his aching limbs to take him into the midst of the rubble. A slight breeze dusted away some of the ashes, and he squinted to make out the pale-peach color of skin.

He clapped his hands together before clearing more and more away, revealing a hand reaching out from the ground. His left hand immediately gripped the large, calloused fingers in his own before tugging hard to pull out the soldier trapped below. Ed fell over backwards from the lack of weight, surprising him. How was the soldier so light…?

It quickly dawned on him then. He hadn't pulled out a soldier.

In his hand was the severed, pale arm of one of his comrades.

A strangled cry ripped from his throat as he quickly dropped the arm, legs frantically scooting him backwards and away from the bloodied limb. Yes, this had certainly belonged to one of his comrades. A few ragged, stained scraps of the once-aqua uniform still clung feebly to the arm, glued there with dried blood. The sickly-sweet stench was everywhere. The bodies were scattered all throughout the ruins; some had died from the explosion, others from gunshot wounds.

_"__H-how long?! How long was I out?!" _Ed thought in petrified confusion. His men… His squadron… None of them were to be seen. His gaze trailed back to the severed arm in fascinated horror. It had been ripped off by the explosion, judging from the burns. And suddenly, his right arm's stump began to ache. He knew it must have hurt. He knew the agony of having your limbs torn from your body, the searing agony…

Before he knew it, he was collapsed on the ground and retching. His stomach wildly flipped and clenched until he was throwing up bile, but it just wouldn't stop. The nausea brought about by the reek of drying, rotting blood, the masses of corpses, and the pain were all too much.

_"__My squadron is dead." _A convulsion racked his light frame, causing more bile to come up.

_"__I'm alone." _Another convulsion. His head was tearing itself apart in agony.

_"__They're dead. They're all dead."_ He convulsed again, and a broken sob clawed out of his throat along with another spray of bile.

_"__I could have saved them. They _died _because of me!"_ The pain and grief caused his body to sway back and forth as he wailed, every sob wracking his body. The hot tears began to flow freely down his face.

"God help me…" he cried weakly, not even caring if the concept of an omnipotent god was ridiculous.

"I thought… you said… you didn't believe…"

The familiar voice caused his head to turn sharply, his sharp eyes immediately catching sight of Sergeant Rouse, the naïve, young soldier, slowly crawling towards him. "They… left you for dead, too, huh…?" The man coughed before crumpling on the ground.

"Rouse!" Ed choked before stumbling over to his squadron member. The man looked worn and ragged, his hand delicately clasped over his lower chest. Edward kneeled beside the sergeant and helped drag him into a sitting position, leaning against Ed's body.

Rouse gave him a feeble smile. "I'm glad… you're alive, little buddy…"

"Not small," the young alchemist muttered half-heartedly, inspecting his comrade for wounds. "What happened here…?"

The sergeant closed his eyes briefly, attempting to steady his wheezing breaths, before looking back at Ed. "The Cretan soldiers… They must have set up bombs around here. The detonations caught all of us off-guard… A few of us managed to survive the blasts, but then the Cretans came pouring in, and…" He stopped to shudder and cough, specks of blood flecking his pale lips.

Edward's eyes widened in alarm. "Rouse, hold on-"

Rouse coughed again before shaking his head. "Sorry… Rude of me…" He finally smiled in self-satisfaction. "I managed to help some others get to safety before the enemy charged. But apparently that pissed the Cretans off, so they gave me this…" He briefly lifted his hand away from his chest, enough for Ed to see the gaping bullet wounds.

"No… Rouse, I…"

The man gave a pained smirk. "Idiot… I know the look on your face. You think this was your fault, don't you? Well, it wasn't, y'know… I decided to help those men out and completely forgot about the enemy soldiers…"

Ed bit his lip. "I might be able to heal it with alchemy…"

Rouse shook his head. "Nah, kid… If there's one law of alchemy that I do understand, it's… That you can't save a dead man…" With that, his breath hitched, and he closed his weary eyes.

"No… No! Come on, stay with me…!" Ed shifted Rouse hurriedly before clapping his hands together and putting them onto the bullet wounds. Even with his limited knowledge of medical alchemy, he was able to fix the bloody holes temporarily. "Rouse… Please, you can't…"

The man coughed weakly before opening his eyes, his crystal-blue gaze shifting to peer down at his chest in confusion. "Thought… You couldn't heal…?"

Edward shook his head slightly before hooking his left arm around Rouse, not wanting to accidentally squeeze too hard with his unfeeling automail, before hoisting them both to their feet. "Not really… I only managed to stop the bleeding. We need to get you to a doctor as soon as possible."

Rouse staggered and leaned heavily against Ed's smaller frame. "Kid… If I don't live, I want you to tell my family-"

"Shut up!" Edward snapped, infuriated. "Make it home and tell them yourself. You might be called a hero if you die all noble and some crap here today, but think of how much pain you'll cause them, stupid bastard. You can't comfort them if you're a cold body in the ground, even if you have a bunch of stupid shiny medals and pretty ribbons on your uniform."

Rouse's eyes widened before slowly nodding, just barely managing to keep his head up. Taking that as a yes, Ed grit his teeth in determined, grim satisfaction before shouldering as much of Rouse's weight as he could manage. The two of them slowly, but surely, began to hobble away from the ashen grave of their comrades.


	4. Machine

**Hello everyone! Sorry for the long wait. I ran into severe writer's block, and then... Yeah. Real life everywhere. Anyways, this one isn't a long chapter, just a sort of filler to see how our old friend Colonel Musty's doing while I write more chapters~ Anyways, hope you enjoy!**

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Roy's eyes were cold as he snapped. Again and again. His mind was on a sort of autopilot now, his protesting human side sent scrambling for cover in the dark recesses of his mind.

_"__Do you know how many people you've killed?!" _It screamed at him. It was angry.

His eyes narrowed slightly. _Shut up. _He snapped coldly. He couldn't afford to feel right now. He couldn't afford another breakdown like in Ishval. Neither Hughes nor Hawkeye were around to save him now.

_"__You're a murderer!"_

_Old news. _

_"__Why are you doing this?!"_

He almost paused. Why _was_ he doing this again?

_I'm a dog of the military. We are at war with this country. Need to be a good dog so I can be Fuhrer._

And so his mind slowly, methodically spun itself in circles as a distraction. A mere chew toy to keep his emotions at bay as he continued to mechanically kill.

The only thoughts that dared pervade the emotionless machinery were directions. Don't hit the ones in blue. Enemy at two o' clock. Don't hit the ones in blue. Throttle flames left.

A noise from behind made him spin on his heel, about to incinerate the enemy. But he stopped, recognizing the blue uniform, and as his mind slowly came back to him, he recognized the face. It was the sentry from earlier that had told him about the other camps being bombed.

The young man was petrified, but he held his ground-rather admirable, Roy concluded.

"S-Sir… I have news…"

Mustang shot a brief, scanning glance around the area. No enemies were in sight. "What is it?"

The sentry shifted before biting his lip. "I've received intelligence that… that the camp the Fullmetal Alchemist was staying in was one of the camps that was bombed, sir. There are no signs of any survivors yet…"

Mustang's blood ran cold, and the shock decided that now was a fine time to surge over his mind. The emotionless machine was gone. The sudden shift sent him reeling.

_"__Think, damnit, think… Think… Think…"_

He took a breath to stabilize himself. Naturally, he didn't let his inner turmoil show to the outside world.

"Is there a chance he's all right?"

The sentry hesitated. "I'm… not sure, sir. That's all I've heard so far."

His hopes fell. If the camp was bombed… it wasn't likely that his subordinate had survived. He lowered his head slightly, only letting a tiny portion of his grief filter through.

_"__Damnit… How… How would I explain this to Alphonse…? Fullmetal can't be… No, he _shouldn't _be dead!"_

"Sir…? One… One more thing."

"What is it?" Roy numbly mumbled.

The sentry's face contorted into a cruel smile in the blink of an eye. "Nighty-night, Flame Alchemist."

In his distraction, Roy hadn't realized that the enemy had snuck up from behind. All he could manage was a sharp gasp before a heavy, metallic object struck his skull.


	5. Out of the Frying Pan

**This chapter wasn't my favorite to write, but I personally think it picks up towards the end. Unfortunately, this-or the next chapter, which I am about halfway through writing at the moment-will be the last update before I'm back in school. I honestly don't know how it's going to impact my writing schedule, but I know it might take a while to get chapters up. On the other hand, I've lost the writer's block issue, so...**

**I dunno.**

**But I do know that quite a few of you might hate me after reading this chapter.**

**LET'S GET STARTED.**

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"Hey… Major …?"

Ed glanced over at Rouse tiredly. "Keep telling you not t'call me that. Just call me Ed. And what is it?"

Rouse bit his lip before shifting his gaze in the direction of Ed's back, where his arm was wrapped around the smaller kid. "Your… your back is bleeding again. You okay?"

In his head, Edward mentally swore. He hadn't felt the skin on his back reopen, and he hadn't even had time to inspect the wound. Hopefully it wasn't as bad as he thought it was… but knowing his luck, he'd be granted no such mercy. Now that he thought about it, his vision was getting kind of blurry…

"Whoa! Careful!"

Rouse was now struggling to keep Edward up, as the young alchemist had lost his balance. Though the kid was small and skinny, his metal limbs were complete deadweights at the moment. Ed blinked before squeezing his eyes shut and stopping in order to clear the lightheadedness.

Needless to say, it didn't work.

"Hey… Uh, Rouse…? Mind if we… Stop for a minute…?"

The soldier nodded, scoping out their surroundings before setting Ed down against the trunk of a withering old tree, a rather miserable, scraggly thing with bark peeling off the sides. Rouse soon sat down next to his companion after he had made absolutely sure that there were no enemy soldiers lurking about, just waiting to ambush them. Now that Edward was sitting down, it was that much easier to examine the boy's condition. His skin was pale, just a few shades darker than the translucent pallor of a corpse… likely from blood loss and pushing himself far too hard despite his injuries. He still looked fairly conscious, though the gold eyes weren't as vivid as they usually were. Ed's uniform was filthy and ragged, stained down the front with a few stray splashes of stomach acid. Dark, dried blood stains dappled the uniform in seemingly random places, perhaps where he'd been scratched up after the explosion.

"Ed?" Rouse hesitantly questioned.

"Mm…?"

"Can I, uh… check your back? Just need to see what we're dealing with here."

Ed didn't say anything, but he closed his eyes and forced himself to shift, facing his back to the soldier. Rouse instantly shivered at the ugly sight.

The clothing covering Ed's back was no longer even blue, just a dark, sopping-wet mess of shredded, burnt fabric. In the places where the uniform was completely ripped away, exposing the alchemist's bare back, he could see the large, inflamed blisters forming on the skin that hadn't been ripped off.

"Shit," Rouse whispered to himself, eyes wide with horror. It was much worse than he-or Ed- had thought. And he hadn't even seen the full extent of the damage.

"'Ow bad is it?" Edward grunted, snapping Rouse out of his momentary shock.

The young soldier's mouth opened, then it closed again. Finally, he sucked in a breath. "It's… It's bad, Ed. Really bad. You're burned everywhere, and it looks like you're still bleeding…"

_"__Perfect,"_ Ed thought grumpily. _"__Just my luck…" _He sighed. "Okay. Rouse, do you think you can help me get my shirt off? I need to get this cleaned and bandaged up before it gets infected."

Rouse frowned slightly. "I'm not sure if that's possible, since it's sticking to your skin. It'll need to be cut off, I think."

"Just do what you have to. Get it off and cut off all the dirty, bloody spots. Stuff like that. Then give me any of the salvageable stuff and I'll make proper bandages."

The soldier nodded, pulling a small dagger from its sheath at his waist, before cutting the shirt, being highly cautious not to cut the alchemist by mistake. The last thing he needed was another open wound. Eventually, he was able to peel off the soaked, blackened shirt… And immediately wished he hadn't. The foul, overpowering stench of drying blood and burnt flesh flooded his nose, making him gag. Rouse forced himself to back away only a little and start doing as he was told, trying in vain to ignore the reek. At least it didn't have the sickly, rotten odor of infection, though that would change if he didn't hurry.

Even Edward, who was just barely conscious at this point, could pick up on the putrid scent, making his nose wrinkle. To keep himself awake, he busied himself by thinking of a way to-at least temporarily-clean the wound. And then his eyes began to wander, settling on a small patch of… daisies, about a few feet away. No, that wasn't right. He caught a faint whiff of apple and grinned. Maybe his luck wasn't as bad as he had thought.

Rouse finally handed over the scraps of uniform that weren't completely soaked with blood, and Ed set about transmuting the scraps into suitable bandages. "Hey, Rouse?" Ed asked distractedly.

"Yeah?"

"See those flowers over there? The ones that look like daisies? I need you to bring me a few of them."

"Uh… Sure?" Rouse reached over and plucked three flowers before setting them in front of the alchemist. "What are the daisies for?"

Ed shook his head, putting the transmuted, patchwork bandages aside. "They aren't daisies. They're chamomile."

"Oh! I know what that stuff is. My grandma used to drink chamomile tea all the time to help her get to sleep faster… But, uh… Not sure if you exactly want to sleep around here…"

Ed rolled his eyes before pressing his palms together to ready the transmutation. "I'm not making a sleeping draught here. I'm going to use the apigenin in the flowers to make a cream that should help clean my back and prevent infection."

"Oh," Rouse simply uttered, feeling a bit stupid. "I see."

Edward transmuted about a handful of sweet-scented ointment before putting it in Rouse's hands. "I'm gonna need you to help put this on my back before I get all bandaged up, okay? Then I should be fine…"

Rouse blinked before nodding, hesitating to put the stuff on the kid's back. It was going to hurt him, at least a little bit; that much was for certain. Besides, he wasn't sure if he was comfortable putting his hands on the (basically) exploded flesh… It certainly wasn't going to be pleasant for either of them. Nevertheless, repressing a shudder, he started smearing the cream on Edward's wounds.

The alchemist bit back a hiss of pain as his exposed skin was shifted, and he was forced to feel the unpleasant, gut-wrenching sensation of having his tattered skin move about, barely clinging to his back by a few strings of flesh as the rest was limply shifted about like a loose blanket. It sent involuntary shivers up his spine.

Finally, Rouse pulled his hands away, wincing at the sight of blood smeared on his fingers, mixing with any trace remains of ointment left to create a disgusting pink mixture. Despite his touch being ridiculously light, the gaping burns on Ed's skin had seen fit to pop right open and ooze thick, dark red streams down his back. Rouse quickly picked up the makeshift bandages and set to work tightly covering the wound, trying his hardest to make sure he didn't cause any more bleeding or tears in the delicate, burnt skin.

Ed couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief when the movement had stopped and his wounds thoroughly treated for the moment. If the bandaging or cleaning had gone on for much longer, he would've thrown up, he was sure. "Thanks," he mumbled quietly, consciousness already slipping away. "I'm jus'… gonna take a lil' nap… Wake me up in a few…"

And with that, he promptly fell fast asleep, leaving Rouse staring blankly at the kid, amazed at how quickly he had gone unconscious. And then he sighed. It was comforting, having the young prodigy around, but… Now that he was out cold, Rouse was starting to worry. He didn't know how much further away the next base camp was, or even which way they were headed. All they could possibly do was keep walking, try to note any familiar landmarks, and hope that they weren't just blundering deeper into Cretan territory.

"We'll make it to the others soon," he mumbled to himself, more for reassurance than anything.

_Click._

"You're not going anywhere, damn Amestrian."

-FMA-

Roy woke up and, quite frankly, regretted ever doing so.

His head was throbbing up a storm, and the sheer darkness of his surroundings wasn't helping to realign his senses or his thought process. He attempted moving his hands, but no luck there. His wrists were tightly bound with rope, and his gloves were long gone. His ankles were trussed up as well, he dimly noted. The back of his head felt warmer than usual, and slightly damp… Possibly blood. And about ten seconds later, he slowly received a question from his brain, also known as Captain Obvious:

_"__Did I just get kidnapped?"_

It was his first time being kidnapped, to be honest. But when he came back into his senses, the panic suddenly threatened to overwhelm him. When people were kidnapped, they were often held as hostages. Or sometimes they were just plain killed right off the bat.

But this was war, and he had no doubt that he'd been taken by the Cretan spy and his accomplices.

And right now, he really, _really _wished that he hadn't read so many detailed reports of the suffering and torture that prisoners of war were put through…

He heard a steady creak, and light filtered into the room. All he could make out, while squinting, was a tall shadow looming ominously from the doorway.

"And now," a rough, heavily-accented voice chuckled darkly, "the fun is about to begin. Welcome to your new home for the rest of your short life, Flame Alchemist."


	6. Bleak

**Hello everyone, here with a new chapter... I sincerely apologize for not updating sooner, but school has been really crazy and it's taken me a long time to get settled into a decent schedule. Unfortunately, studying and homework comes before writing. And we're going to be tearing up all the carpet in our house (except in my room) and replacing it with wood... Which also might detract from my writing time. **

**Anyways, enough rambling. I need to get this posted so I can frantically work on other stories before I have to go back to school tomorrow.**

**(P.S. I can't thank all of you enough for the support. It's really helped motivate me into writing new chapters for this story. So you all should pat yourselves on the back, 'cause you're awesome!)**

* * *

Rouse, absolutely petrified, stumbled along as he was roughly guided forward by the small patrol of Cretan soldiers. Every now and then, the soldier behind him would push the cold, metal muzzle of his gun into the back of Rouse's skull, emphasizing that if the Amestrian soldier so much as took a step out of line, he would have his brain matter all over the scraggly grass at their feet.

Meanwhile, they had tightly bound Ed's hands up. It was unclear if they knew his ability to clap to transmute, but they certainly knew he was an alchemist.

It was also quite clear that, even if they didn't have a clue about his clapping transmutations, Ed wouldn't be able to move his hands freely at all for quite some time.

Or fight, either, for that matter. The commotion had woken him up, but the amount of blood that he had lost, on top of his injuries, meant that he wasn't exactly at peak condition. Two soldiers kept prodding Ed forward in front of Rouse, and he could tell that the kid was losing strength fast. He kept tripping up and nearly collapsed to the ground numerous times. But the soldiers were in a hurry, so they just forced them both onwards at the fastest pace they could go.

Eventually they reached a small base, where they were quickly ushered in. Rouse's hope that an Amestrian squad would see them and come rescue them from enemy hands slowly crumbled. They were in the midst of enemy territory in some obscure, sheltered building. They were likely both marked as MIA… Or worse, KIA.

And he got the sick feeling that the latter term would definitely be applicable after a week in this accursed place, at most.

Ed, meanwhile, could hardly feel a thing. His arms and legs were like noodles, and his head felt all light and fuzzy. He had figured out that they had been captured by the enemy, but that was about all that his mind was processing other than '_god _my back hurts like hell'. And then their surroundings were lit up with artificial light.

Were they going down stairs? He was pretty sure they were.

He didn't know where Rouse was, either. That made the logical side of his brain worried, but it took a lot of energy to be worried.

And then they stopped moving. It was cold, but he was grateful to be able to sit down.

Why did his hands feel constricted?

He looked down, finally noticing the rope binding his wrists.

Oh.

Well shit.

What was it that Teacher had said about unbinding rope aga-

His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp flare of pain in his rib. He could just barely make out the form of a person leaning over him… Then he'd probably been kicked by this guy? He didn't really remember doing anything to upset the man, but then again, he had plenty of people out for him.

"Douchecanoe," he uttered at the blurry thing he thought was a person, his words slurred. It was the best insult he could even think of at the moment.

Ed thought he heard a voice, right before another flare went up on his face, and then the back of his head when it hit the wall.

Rouse struggled against his captors, panicking at the sight of Ed being pummeled into the floor. "Leave him alone! He's just a kid; leave him the hell alone!"

He winced as the soldiers shoved him down onto the floor as well, quivering as the gun was pointed at his head while they worked on tying him to an iron ring on the wall. They barked guttural Cretan at him and Ed before walking away, back up the stairs from which they had come.

"Hey… Hey, Ed?" Rouse whispered hoarsely, quivering slightly.

No response. The dull gold eyes are trained straight ahead, and the young alchemist is swaying and his head keeps bobbing.

"Ed..!" He calls, louder this time.

The glassy eyes shift towards the fuzzy noise, blinking slowly. Was that Rouse? Looked and sounded like him, but _damn _did he feel sluggish. "Mm, wha' is it…?"

Rouse sighs in relief. "Ed, we got captured by enemy soldiers… We need to get out of here, quick."

Edward's face is blank as he repeats the words in his mind, attempting to translate them.

Then it hits, and a slight scowl appears on his face. "Yeah, 'kay… I'll figure somethin'… Out…"

His head bobs dangerously low as his eyelids droop.

Why is he awake? He could go to sleep. He could get a nice, long rest.

Wait, no. He has to help Rouse. Help them both to escape.

But that could wait. He would only rest for a little bit before waking up, be a badass, and formulate the most epic, well-constructed escape plan that the world had ever seen.

Yeah, that sounded good. Rouse wouldn't mind at all, then, if he fell asleep. Which is exactly what he did.

Rouse watched, panic rising again as the young prodigy fell unconscious again. He attempted calling Ed's name multiple times, without even a fraction of success.

He slumped in resignation, staring hopelessly at the ceiling.

-FMA-

Mustang coughed violently, convulsions wracking his cold body. The Cretans had beaten him bloody, persistently asking about battle strategies, formations, the location of the main base camp.

Naturally, he had refused to speak.

Also naturally, they weren't too pleased by his silence.

They had pounded him, kicked him, and whacked him until his uniform was drenched with blood spots. Then they had torn off his shirt, beating him more and eventually breaking out knives.

Yeah, that hadn't been the most enjoyable experience in the world. But at least his body had been numb enough to endure the slicing and stabbing with only relatively minor discomfort.

Then a man had run into the room, whispering something to the leader.

The leader, the first Cretan Mustang had had to put up with, suddenly smirked, holding up his hand to halt the others. His contempt eyes had settled upon his prisoner, reveling in his handiwork.

"Sorry to disappoint, Flame Alchemist. It seems we have some new guests of honor that I must attend to. But don't worry, you'll be seeing me again quite soon."

He chuckled to himself before turning and walking out of the room, followed by his lackeys.

Mustang had then fallen half unconscious for a few brief moments, but was awoken by the freezing cold. The blood and sweat were magnifying the chill, greedily sapping the warmth from his skin.

His head lowered as his teeth chattered.

Whoever the new 'guests of honor' were, he felt terrible for them.

A dark part of his mind coyly put out a brief thought, which Mustang hurriedly shoved away in disgust.

_"__That's just fine. Let them torture the others, nice and slow, so that they won't come back here. It's me or them."_

He stared blankly at the floor before closing his eyes.

He would attempt to sleep, even if he was uncomfortable. He got the feeling he was going to require all the strength he could muster, and soon.


End file.
